Flies, little satanic vehicles,
arose in my winter room
like CO2 scentless, steals your sleep.
They brush me like perverts.
ZZroom, they go, small examples
of the banality of evil.
I wait for them to starve
Do they eat plants?
Instead they go from two to three
and seem to seek my company.
I consider it but they have dirty feet.
Bzzip, they go. They’re quite immune to death.
I think I’ve got them but they just fly away.
On fly paper, two fly paper, three flypaper, four.
Shivering, ecstatically exhausted,
they struggle to be free.
And they give me their death, the only one they had.